


Helping Hands

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surprising Santana is one of her favorite things to do, and when Santana is already doing something like <i>this</i>…all the more so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helping Hands

Title: Helping Hands  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: NC-17  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: None in particular.  
Summary: Surprising Santana is one of her favorite things to do, and when Santana is already doing something like _this_ …all the more so.

  
There are certain images that burn into Brittany’s brain and hold there, lit like neon and shining for miles, reminding her even on her worst days that she absolutely chose right in choosing Santana. Images like the sunburst of a smile after a failed test, or the glimmer of brown eyes in the firelight, or the tangle of light brown fingers threading through shock-pale ones. Images like the forever stretch of legs, finely muscled beneath a stark red skirt, like the gentle curve of cleavage at a summer pool party, or the dance of raven hair as it shimmies this way and that in a winter breeze. Images that remind her, no matter how weird Santana is being on a given day, or how frustrated Brittany grows with this town’s distrust of their relationship, that Santana is undeniably the one for her.

This is one of those images: the sight of Santana splayed across her own bed, lit by a bulb that desperately needs replacing, her skin caramel against the midnight blanket.

Brittany pauses in the doorway, one foot balanced on the bottom step, peering through the crack Santana unwisely left open. She probably didn’t plan this, or the door would be firmly shut and locked, and Brittany would be trapped on the other side. That would be a total bummer, because then she would be missing what is clearly the best show on earth—and all because calling ahead slipped her mind again when she decided to kick off their study date early.

Surprising Santana is one of her favorite things to do, and when Santana is already doing something like _this_ …all the more so.

Heart thumping pleasurably, Brittany presses her eye to the thin space between frame and door and watches. Santana is half-dressed, a book laying with its cracked spine beside her; the skirt from school has been replaced by a pair of gray sweatpants borrowed from Brittany’s own stash, the uniform top draped carelessly over a chair. Santana’s bra is a vivid green, one of Brittany’s favorites, and slightly unbalanced. One strap drifts lazily off a rounded shoulder, the left cup slipping awkwardly until it might as well not be there at all. It’s the kind of image that, on its own, would fit into the Brittany Done Right category, no questions asked.

The fact that Santana is stretched out on her back this way, her left hand tucked beneath her waistband while her right settles just below her breasts, pretty much adds a big gold star to the whole picture.

Brittany bumps the door lightly, careful not to let it squeal as she widens the space by a few bare inches. No one’s home upstairs, and it’s too early to wander in and spoil this whole party. Watching Santana work all by herself is a rare treat, and one she won’t be getting as often once college comes along; she’ll be making the most of it while she can, thank you very much.

Her tongue scratches against the roof of her mouth, embarrassingly dry, as Santana’s hands move slowly down her body. Deft fingers catch hold of the bared nipple and pull, just hard enough to draw the skin tight; a pouty lip vanishes between clean white teeth as Santana’s eyes flicker shut and return at half-mast. It’s a slow day, Brittany can see: none of the rough, aggressive motions that usually make up the act of _getting off_. Today is clearly about something deeper, something less like a quick-and-dirty orgasm and more like Santana _enjoying_ herself.

That’s all right by her.

Santana’s nails skirt along the curve of her breast, their chipped black polish standing out beautifully against her skin. She traces up, in the valley of her cleavage, and higher, scratching carefully against the dip of her collarbone. Her head shifts against the pillows, her cheeks already pink, her hair bunching messily—still a little worn out from its usual steel-strong ponytail. Brittany  
leans forward, her own nails biting into the door frame as the outline of Santana’s hand pushes up against soft gray cotton.

She can imagine what Santana’s doing under those pants with perfect clarity, and it’s enough to rut her hips against the frame in one quick motion. If Santana’s going slow, she won't be inside—not yet. Her fingers are still tracing shapes along the seam of her underwear, nails light and teasing as she takes the time to rediscover herself. Up and down, long, patient strokes that begin down low and rise up to the edge of her panty line, never touching bare skin, never pushing too hard or too fast. This is the Santana no one ever sees, the one who only exists here in this room—and in Brittany’s. Unhurried, knowing, drawing it out a long as she is able. This is what Santana looks like without a care in the world, without parents and teachers breathing down her neck, without other kids making her crazy. This is the _real_ Santana, the one Brittany falls in love with a bit more each day.

Especially in moments like this, with her forehead propped against wood and paint, watching Santana’s right hand etch a thin path up the side of her neck—light enough to tickle, Brittany can tell from the way her shoulders squirm ever so slightly, even as her head tips back. Fingertips ghost along her jawline, the edge of her chin, around one cheek and back down again. Her thumb catches between parted lips and dips inside, testing what Brittany knows to be the softest place before lip becomes mouth. She catches the gentle flash of tongue, of Santana tasting the salt on her own skin, and her hips buck again with hot desire. She is perfectly aware of how Santana tastes, and how much she loves being tasted; the sight of her doing so in the privacy of her own room is wildly sexy.

The hand between her legs continues its stroking motion, and Brittany imagines she can feel beneath her own fingers what is happening under Santana’s. The damp cotton of her underwear, clinging to the V of her thighs, pressed inside just a fraction of an inch by gently probing fingertips. The smooth skin beneath the pad of her thumb as it catches once and slides away. She imagines how warm Santana must be, her clit swollen and pressed gently between two fingers, aching to be touched with bare skin.

She groans once, softly, and sees Santana’s head twitch on the pillows. Lips rise in a faint smile, but do not part to call out Brittany’s name or invite her in; after all this time, there’s no need. The curve of her hand drawing up and down again, its motion sharply defined beneath well-worn material, is more than enough to guide Brittany out of the stairwell. Palming the door open and stepping through, she tugs it shut behind her and flips the latch. Her eyes fix hungrily on the spread of long legs bent at the knees, on the swell of Santana’s breasts as she holds a breath and raises her hips to meet her hand. The muscles of Santana’s stomach quiver and go visibly tense, the waistband of her pants slipping down her hipbones.

There’s just something about Santana this way—patient, the curve of her hips so different from Brittany’s sharp angles, her hand cupped between her legs this way—that sends Brittany’s blood pumping with white-hot fury through her body. Faster than for dance, or for mid-air splits, or for her worst fear, the adrenaline roils along, building until her hands shake. Only Santana has ever done this to her, with her shoulders flat against the mattress, her toes digging into the blankets as she pinches again at her nipple.

She’s shrugging out of her jacket before she knows it, her backpack thudding onto the carpet. Santana’s eyes flick open, her tongue skirting to draw her upper lip into her mouth; meeting her gaze, Brittany grasps the hem of her t-shirt and tugs it pointedly over her head.

Getting naked wasn’t the original game plan; there’s something so _awesome_ about watching Santana slowly stroke herself to a roaring fire of an orgasm, making herself come in long pulls around her own fingers, and she almost hates to interrupt. But, at the same time, there’s something about _helping_ that can be pretty awesome, too.

Brittany really loves to help.

She reaches behind herself, unhooking her bra clumsily as her eyes follow the casual, steady rub of Santana’s hand. Arching her back deliberately, feeling the individual bumps along her spine crackle pleasantly, she smiles. Santana is really looking at her now, biting the inside of her cheek as she palms her breast roughly. She’s putting a real cramp in Santana’s slow-and-steady style here, which would be kind of a shame, if not for the unmistakable little whimper that sifts from her girlfriend’s lips as she pops the button on her jeans and slithers out of them. They whisper to the floor and she shimmies free of her underwear as well, toeing her shoes and socks off for good measure.

Standing in the center of the room, cool air licking at her skin, she watches Santana intently—reading the pull of her eyebrows, the slackening of her jaw, the way her hand pauses for just a beat in her pants before picking up again. She lets it happen, allowing Santana the chance to take her whole body in as she turns in place, on full display. Santana’s eyes roam the length of her spine, the rounded plush leading out from her tailbone and dipping back in again when her legs begin. Brittany cups her own breasts, thumbing the nipples lightly, and flexes her abs until Santana’s left foot slips against the blanket.

She almost wants to ask if Santana sees something she likes, except it’s painfully obvious—in the flush of Santana’s cheeks, and the shift of her shoulders off the bed, and the tension in her biceps—that _everything_ here is favorable for Santana. Everything, including the sway of Brittany’s hips as she crosses the carpet, and the bend of her knees as she lifts up onto the mattress, and the curtain of carefully-brushed blonde hair as it drifts down into her eyes. She kneels there, resting her ass against sturdy heels, at the foot of the bed. Watching the breath leave Santana’s lips as she loses focus, her thighs spreading wider.

It’s only after Santana seems to compose herself, smiling that faint, teasing smile, that Brittany crawls up the mattress. At this range, she can clearly see the blush between Santana’s breasts, the flex and curl of her fingertips as they dance across her stomach. It’s impossible not to note the subtle rise of her hips, the way her knees arch out ever so slightly, the pink slick of tongue across her bottom lip.

She reaches for Santana’s waist and fingers the edge of the sweatpants. “Take these off?”

A brisk nod, the lift of Santana’s ass from the bed, and she’s drawing the material down supple thighs, dragging black underwear—soaked, she can see from here; Santana must have been teasing herself much longer than Brittany’s been around to watch—along at the same time. She drops them both unceremoniously to the floor and spreads her palms across the green silk still stretched across Santana’s chest.

“And this.”

It’s only fair, she thinks, that they’re both naked—that she can see exactly how turned on Santana is after all of that. It’s only fair, with her own thighs damp and her stomach muscles painfully taut.

From the way Santana is watching her, dark hair splayed across the pillowcase, one finger rubbing absently across her lips, the feeling is mutual.

She wants Santana to pick up where she left off, to resume touching herself until she lifts from the bed again with a cry of pleasure, but that would mean just _watching_. Watching, with her own body so hungry, with the heat stoking low in her belly, just isn’t going to cut it anymore.

Her hands match Santana’s hipbones, folding over gently, and pull up until Santana sits and turns obediently. Her knees push deep into the mattress until it creaks, her face turned sideways against the pillows. She draws out a shuddering breath, fingers curling into loose fists on either side of her head.

Brittany, pulling her hips back, eases in behind her until they meet. Santana’s backside is hot against her, the skin deliriously soft; Brittany leans her cheek against the slope of her back, laying an instinctive kiss along her shoulder, and sighs. Watching Santana is great, but _feeling_ her has always been so much better. She lives for these moments, the ones when Santana is so obviously _hers_ , when she can rotate her hips and feel an immediate backward thrust in response.

Dragging a hand down between Santana's shoulder blades, she presses lightly, feeling out every ridge, every mark beneath her skin. She keeps her touch light, just as Santana was doing to herself, reaching the dimples at the base of her spine and dipping into each in turn. Santana squirms, lips parted in a ragged sigh, pushing back against her.

Brittany curls around Santana’s body, resting her breasts against the plane of her back as she reaches for the hand nearest to her, knuckles pressed to Santana’s mouth. Her fingers wrap around, spreading the fingers flat against the bed and enveloping them until her hand is Santana’s and Santana’s is hers. She holds there for a moment, sweeping kisses across Santana’s shoulders, down the back of her neck, pausing to suck heatedly at a spot chosen at random. The hand beneath her own contracts, nails scratching against the bedspread as Santana releases a muffled little moan into her pillow.

Her free hand pressing to Santana’s stomach, Brittany guides her hand off the bed, smoothing it down between Santana’s legs. Hot flesh meets their fingertips, moisture dripping between them, and Santana’s next moan vibrates vividly in Brittany’s ears. She presses in at Brittany’s command, tracing between her own folds with nimble pressure. Her shoulders draw up, her face pressed firmly into the pillow as Brittany guides her up and down herself, each stroke calm and sweet.

Brittany reminds herself to breathe, tilting her hips to meet Santana’s skin in metered thrusts. Santana is blazing hot to the touch, all rounded, desperate nerves and slippery skin, and with every pass, she seems only to grow wetter. Brittany eases their fingers around the swell of her clit, rubbing back and forth until Santana pants into the pillowcase and jerks her hips forward. She backs off slightly, grazing between her lips with the barest friction, smiling around an open-mouthed kiss.

Santana rocks down, and her hips follow suit, pelvis grinding harder than she really means to. It’s so hard to control herself, to go slowly with Santana all laid out like this, her hair pushed off her neck, her teeth clamping down around a sliver of pillowcase. Hard, but amazing, because Santana isn’t trying to wrest control back. Santana is just riding her out, whimpering when Brittany eases their fingers in thin circles, reaching the joint of her left thigh before trailing back in again.

She’s whimpering, and pushing down with her hips like she’s trying to grind their joined hands into the mattress, and when Brittany’s grip slides down to her wrist, she pants a shaky curse around the fabric in her mouth. Brittany stretches up to reach her ear, licking at it softly until Santana mewls.

“Here,” she whispers, angling Santana’s hand for her, and Santana moans with relief as her fingertips slide into herself. “Slow,” she adds, when Santana’s whole body folds in around her hand; Santana nods blearily, turning her forehead into the pillow and lifting her chest from the mattress. Her knees press down harder, her hips thrusting steadily as she deepens her own stroke. Brittany keeps a gentle grasp on her wrist, pulling the fingers out and guiding them back in again as she sees fit.

“Three,” she whispers when it becomes clear that Santana is far past the point of the two fingers she’s already got knuckle-deep. “And slow. Make it last.”

The moan Santana emits is ragged, her breath coming shallow dips. Brittany’s free hand slides around to her waist, pushing in time with Santana’s fingers to grant her the most depth possible. Her own body slides and slips against Santana’s ass, the heat between her legs growing dangerously near to boiling over. She wills herself to take her own advice— _slow_ —and drags a blunt nail up Santana’s wristbone.

“Good?” she asks, breathless, and Santana makes a wounded sort of sound. Her hips spike down, her fingers crooking within her own walls, and Brittany imagines she can feel it, too—the familiar clench of slick muscle, the tight passage closing around her searching fingers. She buries her face in Santana’s hair, grinding against her, and groans when Santana makes a surprisingly high noise on the next thrust.

It’s clear, from the unsteady plunge of Santana’s body, the fact that she is all but humping her own hand, that she’s growing close. Brittany tightens her grip, urging Santana to move faster, to slide in deeper. Her thumb swipes along the flush of needy skin, and then retreats, her hand pulling out entirely and coming to rest on Santana’s other hip.

She doesn’t need to give further direction; Santana’s body slumps to the mattress, her head swiveling to gulp unsteady breaths as her hips jolt down in full against her hand. Brittany can see the friction building in the tremble at the backs of her thighs, the tension in her calves; her hips pump in time with the curl of her fingers, the frenzied crush of palm against clit. Brittany leans back on her haunches and slips her hand between her own legs, hoarsely muttering Santana name under her breath.

Santana comes in a long arc, her hips turning, her spine elongating with the motion; it seems to go on and on as her voice jerks from her throat, her arm going rigid beneath her body, and Brittany’s fingers stroke faster to keep up. She slants back, weight rested on one hand, watching the way Santana’s ass rises and falls, her dark eyelashes fluttering.

She’s reached a furious pace by the time Santana finds the strength to roll over, and the sight of her—hair messy beyond hope, right cheek crimson from being crushed into the pillowcase, mouth flushed and obscene—stills Brittany’s hand. She’s beautiful, and smiling a lazy, wicked smile, and her fingers glisten straight down to her palm. She scoots along the bed until her parted thighs match on either side of Brittany’s bent legs, her swollen skin sticky and tempting against Brittany’s kneecap. Her hand stretches out, brushes Brittany where her own fingers have been caressing, and the touch is so electric that Brittany’s head snaps forward, her chin striking her chest.

She lets Santana touch her, because Santana always does it best—with fingers still painted with evidence of her own orgasm, somehow shaky and strong at once—and it doesn’t take much more than the tease of her middle finger at Brittany’s entrance for everything to come apart. She bucks, reaching desperately for Santana, falling forward until her mouth sinks against plush lips. Her tongue delves in with a wordless moan, her head rushing in a fit of black spots, and dimly, she thinks she can hear Santana murmur something beautiful against her skin.

She tumbles onto the bed, half-sprawled across Santana’s quaking chest, and swipes matted hair from her forehead. “Hi,” she manages at last, grinning.

“Hi,” Santana drawls back, fingernails skimming down Brittany’s arm. “You weren’t supposed to come by until five.”

“I missed you,” Brittany informs her honestly, and kisses her again. “Mm. Not enough kissing.”

“Goof.” Pushing at her playfully, Santana laughs. “How long were you watching me fuck myself like a creep?”

“Aw, it wasn’t creepy at all.” Brittany waits a beat, then plunges on. “You were totally hot, getting my favorite sweatpants all wet and stuff. Not the least bit creep-ish.”

Santana nips at her lip warningly. “Watch it. I could lock you out next time.”

“But you wo-on’t,” Brittany sing-songs into her mouth. “’Cuz you love me and stuff and stuff.”

“I suppose,” Santana sighs in her world-suffering way, tongue poking between her teeth as her head falls back again to strike the pillow. “But seriously, I hope you realize you’re kind of a stalker.”

“Am not.”

“Are too,” Santana says wisely. “Watching me finger myself like that. Total stalker behavior.”

“Do stalkers strip for you and climb into bed to help?” Brittany wonders. Santana nods.

“All the time.”

“Ah. I guess I fit the duck, then.”

“Bill,” Santana snorts. Brittany grins.

“What-ever. You still love me. You’re in love with a stalker.”

“And a stripper,” Santana adds, tangling their legs together and yawning. “Who is super mean when I’m trying to get off.”

“I think you mean super _helpful_ ,” Brittany corrects. Santana stretches, rolling onto her side and pulling Brittany’s arm around her middle. She’s not going to answer, Brittany knows, because that would mean admitting Brittany’s right. After being so completely at Brittany’s mercy that way, Santana will do anything to get the power back—even if it means rubbing her ass back against the still-steady throb between Brittany’s legs and closing her eyes for a nap.

They’re probably not going to get any studying in tonight after all, but Brittany doesn’t mind. She can’t imagine focusing her attention on Chinese dynasties anyway, with this new image of Santana burned in her mind: The beautiful, hotter than hell image of Santana on her knees, biting at the pillows, riding her own hand until she comes. The gorgeous, knock-out-sexy image of Santana on her back, spent, and still stretching up to press her exhausted hand against Brittany’s skin.

And this, just as brightly: the image of Santana curled up in her arms, already drifting off to sleep. A Santana whose brow goes limp and whose mouth slides open, fingers loosening around Brittany’s wrist without being aware of it. This Santana is just as much _hers_ as the Santana held against the mattress, riding her fingers at Brittany's direction. This Santana is just as wonderful as that one, and Brittany thinks she's lucky, because both Santana's are the same. Both love her, and want her, and both are Brittany's _girlfriend_ —proving again and again, with each new day, that Santana was the only choice ever worth making.

As if she could ever, ever forget that.  



End file.
